


Take The Spade From My Hands

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Doctors & Physicians, Gen, Illnesses, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: As you’re passing behind First Aid, crossing the room to your own desk, you happen to glance at his console. Ratchet’s name is the first thing that catches your attention. From there, your optics are drawn almost involuntarily to the medical charts. Even after all this time, these results are old and familiar. And you freeze.





	Take The Spade From My Hands

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/181569518106/take-the-spade-from-my-hands-spockandawe-the)

You and First Aid have a nice routine, where neither of you acknowledges the other one’s existence, except when it is absolutely necessary to do your jobs. You work all your shifts in the medbay with Velocity and he works all his with Ratchet, so on occasion, you’ve managed to go for months at a time without exchanging a single word.

You have no desire to change that arrangement. When you come in for your shift and First Aid is still at his desk reviewing something on his console, you pause for a fraction of a nanoklik and he turns his head in your direction—not far enough to actually look at you—before turning back to his screen, and both of you continue to ignore each other. You’re annoyed, but only mildly. These things do happen.

But as you’re passing behind First Aid, crossing the room to your own desk, you happen to glance at his console. Ratchet’s name is the first thing that catches your attention. From there, your optics are drawn almost involuntarily to the medical charts. Even after all this time, these results are old and familiar. And you freeze.

He tenses as you stand there behind him. You’re aware of his reaction, yes, but you can’t take your optics from the screen. You take a single step closer, trying to verify what you’re seeing, and First Aid shifts uneasily, then spins to face you.

“You can back off anytime now, Pharma,” he says.

You ignore that. “These results can’t be correct.”

From the corner of your optic, you see him cross his arms, glaring at you. “Of course they’re correct. I just finished collecting them. And this isn’t one of your patients, so you can go ahead and let me keep doing my job.”

“Then the name is wrong.”

“The name isn’t wrong,” he says. He glances at the screen once, then back to you. “Nothing here is wrong, it’s just a routine checkup. Now, listen. Back. Off.”

Impatiently, you wave that away. “Then the scale must be wrong.” You point at one of his charts. “Units, values, _something_ is incorrect. That can’t be Ratchet’s power dissipation rate.”

This time, at least, he pays some slight attention to your words. He turns more fully to examine the chart in question, though when he faces you again, the suspicion and hostility are barely diminished. He says, “There’s nothing wrong with that chart. It’s safely within normal parameters.”

“And I’m telling you it _isn’t._ Compare it to his older results.”

“No.” First Aid crosses his arms again. “I’ve already done that. This is the _basics._ Besides, it’s almost the same as it was the first time I did a scan. After Delphi. _You_ remember Delphi, of course.”

It’s a weak attack, and you ignore it. _“Before_ that.”

He’s getting frustrated. Which is perfectly fine with you, because you’re already frustrated with him. “I don’t _have_ results from before that. It’s the first time his information was collected in this ship’s databanks. Look, I’ll even—”

First Aid spins his chair back to the desk, and in a few clicks, brings up Ratchet’s spark power dissipation rates dating back to his earliest days aboard the _Lost Light._ It’s almost a flat line. _Almost._

“Give me the statistics on those results,” you say.

“You realize you aren’t in charge here, right?”

You try not to hiss with impatience. “I’m trying to save your patient’s _life,_ since you apparently can’t be bothered to do it yourself.”

He pauses for long enough to give you a flat, disbelieving look, but he turns back to the console and brings up the summary statistics. He waves his hand at the screen with a mocking little flourish. You’re paying attention to more important things. Yes, there it is— Variance is low, even over such a long time period and the mean is well within safe parameters for the average Cybertronian of Ratchet's build. But you’re almost certain— You reach past First Aid, ignoring the way he stiffens, and tap a few keys.

The lowest and highest recorded values highlight themselves on the screen, and your spark sinks even as you savor the feeling of vindication. You think back, remembering the old, old results from the scans you took of Ratchet yourself, approximating frametype requirements, time lapse, how much overvoltage he would have experienced over the years and how much his frame would have recovered from versus how much would have been cumulative— There haven’t been enough patients, is the trouble. All the equations you’ve managed to pull together are still so imprecise as to be theoretical.

First Aid has finally remembered to do his job instead of just trying to antagonize you, and is looking at the screen now too. He doesn’t understand, though. You can see the lack of comprehension on his face, and you’re not willing to wait for him to ask the question.

You point at the lowest recorded value on the chart. Nearly the first scan that First Aid took of Ratchet. And then the highest. From today. “Do you see? Power dissipation rate is increasing with time.

He gives you a skeptical sideways look, then turns back to the chart. “Barely. Pharma, it’s practically a flat line. The rate of increase is negligible, it—”

You make sharp negating gesture. “The time trend is _there._ Even if the placement of those minimum and maximum values is a coincidence, you can’t afford to just _assume_ that. It’s your _job_ to avoid those assumptions.” You pause, but you’re annoyed with more than one person in this situation. “And if Ratchet had bothered to provide you with his older results, the time trend would be even more obvious. You need to treat this as soon as possible.”

“Treat _what,_ this isn’t—” First Aid pushes his chair back far enough for him to get a good look up at you. “Have I ever mentioned how much I don’t miss this thing? The thing where you’re so busy lording it over us how smart you apparently are that you never bother to tell us what you’re even talking about?”

“I’m talking about spark burnout, obviously. Why else would I be looking at long-term power dissipation rates? You were at Delphi when I diagnosed the first case of age-related burnout, _please_ tell me you were paying a _little_ attention.”

There. He actually pauses now. Actually takes the time to consider your words.

You lean in to look at the chart again, point out a spot on the axis below the current lowest recorded value. “There. That was where his power dissipation rates sat for most of the war. Millions of years. His highest values then were still below your lowest values now.”

First Aid leans in too. He looks concerned now. _Finally._ “Fine, but even if you’re right about that— Where he is now, that’s still easily within the safe limits given his frame. Say it’s where you recorded it a million years ago, still—” He shakes his head. “Even if it keeps increasing at the same rate as it does here, it’s going to be millions of years longer before it even approaches anything I’d be worried about.”

“It won’t,” you tell him. And you curse to yourself. It’s been too long since you took any scans of Ratchet, and you don’t have much hope he saved any of his old records. You have no idea how long ago this started. You shake your head, cutting off that train of thought. “The rate of increase _also_ increases with time. At some point—which varies between patients, and there haven’t been enough of those to determine contributing factors—that rate of increase becomes exponential.”

You straighten, crossing your arms, staring at the chart, as though it’s going to tell you anything new. “Once that happens, your patient will have weeks to live and there’s nothing you can do.” Ratchet will have weeks to live, you mean. You shake your head again to clear it. “Go ahead, run a smoothing function and look at slope as a function of time. It’s getting steeper, I guarantee it.”

At least you have First Aid’s full attention. At least you’ve managed that much. He’s already beginning the analysis you suggested. Good.

His voice is distracted, but he says, “This can’t be that urgent. It’s still— Look how slowly it’s increasing. There must be plenty of time to take care of this. And how _do_ we take care of it? You said it yourself, there haven’t been many cases, and those were all late-stage.”

Fatal, he means. You’re… tired. You keep that from your voice as you say. “It’s not urgent until you’ve suddenly got a terminally ill patient on your hands. Treatment—” You sigh, powering down your optics and thinking. “Theoretically? Add passive components, you want to reduce overvoltage in the spark, so any voltage you can dissipate in the rest of the power routing will help. You’ll want to avoid overheating in other parts of his frame, especially near the spark. And he’ll need regular maintenance to stay on top of the issue, but that’s a less urgent problem.” Theoretically. _Theoretically._ You force yourself to gesture carelessly at the screen and say, “He is _your_ patient. Who knows you how long you have to work with, but do feel free to experiment.”

First Aid nods without saying a word, all his attention on the screen. Good. You’re done with this conversation. You were done with this conversation before it even started.

You add, “And if you’ll excuse me, I _do_ have other things to take care of.”

This time, you don’t even wait for an answer, just turn and finish making your way to your own desk. Your shift has barely started and you’re already exhausted. When Velocity slips in to join you a few kliks later, you don’t even have it in you to say hello. She gives you a curious look as she settles at her desk, but doesn’t say anything to you and turns her attention to her own work. First Aid stays at his console, poring over Ratchet’s scan results. You set that aside, set it out of your mind. All you can do is turn to your own console, open the documents you need to review, and try as hard as you can to concentrate on your work.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/181569518106/take-the-spade-from-my-hands-spockandawe-the)


End file.
